During our recent relocation things got pretty tense--particularly in the first few days following G's departure for his new job--when Oscar and I were left alone to organize the house for the movers. Under the pressure, my normally sweet, vibrant, cheeky little monkey became one of those frenzied caged primates that screech wildly and fling poop. That's my story. If he were blogging, Curious Oscar would describe the scene of carnage in the lobby that occurred after Hundley went rabid. Let's just say we weren't feelin' the love, so to speak.
Thankfully, Oscar enjoyed a rainfall of kindness in the searing desert of chaotic change that was our home in those days. Grandpa and Grandma and Matt sent many tender, supportive notes that were particularly directed at Oscar. Whenever one appeared in the mailbox, Oscar would say, "Let's see what's in it."
One day we opened the mailbox and found one of these letters. We hurried into the house and plopped down on the rug straight away to look inside. I read the note to Oscar, emphasizing "We LOVE YOU!" To Oscar's delight, some happy face stickers were included. He began peeling off the stickers and carefully placing them on the note. With each application he repeated, "We love you. We love you."
We love you, too, Grandpa and Grandma and Matt.
Thursday, October 27, 2011
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Righteous, Dude.
As soon as Oscar started talking G encouraged him to participate in prayers. I was impressed with how young a child can be and understand that he should clasp his hands together and say "amen" at the end. His precious "amens," cued by the name of our Lord, became a source of pride and amusement during church as he joined the congregation in saying "amen" at the end of prayers and talks---and of a wee bit of embarrassment as, in the middle of the sacrament prayer, a lone, resounding "amen" came from our pew. And it was very funny indeed as we watched General Conference last October. Bless his little heart. I'm not sure if he gets what "amen" means. Or perhaps he really gets it: he also states it very authoritatively when he closes a book, slams down the lid of the laptop, or wants me to stop talking.
Later he started doing shout-outs during prayer. "More snow!" Daddy would petition Heavenly Father for more snow, if it was right. "Oscar play in it!" "Daddy play in it!" "Car play in it!" G duly asked that we might all play in it. Another favorite was "More bubbles!" (G would sometimes bring those little packing pillows home from work for Oscar to pop.) To my surprise, we got snow this year later than expected. And bubbles abounded. Could it be? These days, unfortunately, we are hard pressed to get him to do anything other than run around wildly shouting at the top of his lungs during prayer time. I guess there won't be any more snow.
Oscar was fascinated with the Mormon Tabernacle Choir during conference as well. It was the only time he was transfixed by the proceedings. He sang along. It is also true that he will only sit still in sacrament meeting during the hymns. He holds his book and sings like any other congregant. Or at least like any other congregant who is tone deaf and doesn't know the words. So he fits right in. Singing time is also his favorite part of nursery, and he's really learning the songs (which will later play into his most precious display of religious inclination).
For virtually every family home evening, we bring out the gospel art book and look at the pictures. Oscar identifies "prophets" in general, and "Prophet Monson," "Prophet Smith," and "Prophet Moroni" in particular. Moroni is putting the "gold plates" into a "hole." He also identifies "temples," and, of course, "Jesus." When asked whom Jesus loves, he replies, "Oscar." Awww.
It gets better. When Oscar is in his high chair eating he often points to the picture above our table and says, "temple." Once when he did this I said, "We love going to the temple." He shyly used his hand to cover his eyes and beaming smile and said sweetly, "someday." Isn't he the loveliest boy ever!
The picture above our table is of the Notre Dame cathedral. Oops.
Later he started doing shout-outs during prayer. "More snow!" Daddy would petition Heavenly Father for more snow, if it was right. "Oscar play in it!" "Daddy play in it!" "Car play in it!" G duly asked that we might all play in it. Another favorite was "More bubbles!" (G would sometimes bring those little packing pillows home from work for Oscar to pop.) To my surprise, we got snow this year later than expected. And bubbles abounded. Could it be? These days, unfortunately, we are hard pressed to get him to do anything other than run around wildly shouting at the top of his lungs during prayer time. I guess there won't be any more snow.
Oscar was fascinated with the Mormon Tabernacle Choir during conference as well. It was the only time he was transfixed by the proceedings. He sang along. It is also true that he will only sit still in sacrament meeting during the hymns. He holds his book and sings like any other congregant. Or at least like any other congregant who is tone deaf and doesn't know the words. So he fits right in. Singing time is also his favorite part of nursery, and he's really learning the songs (which will later play into his most precious display of religious inclination).
For virtually every family home evening, we bring out the gospel art book and look at the pictures. Oscar identifies "prophets" in general, and "Prophet Monson," "Prophet Smith," and "Prophet Moroni" in particular. Moroni is putting the "gold plates" into a "hole." He also identifies "temples," and, of course, "Jesus." When asked whom Jesus loves, he replies, "Oscar." Awww.
It gets better. When Oscar is in his high chair eating he often points to the picture above our table and says, "temple." Once when he did this I said, "We love going to the temple." He shyly used his hand to cover his eyes and beaming smile and said sweetly, "someday." Isn't he the loveliest boy ever!
The picture above our table is of the Notre Dame cathedral. Oops.
Thursday, June 2, 2011
Crowning Glory
So Oscar's hair kind of got to be a thing, an entity unto itself, that begged for compliment or criticism from friend and stranger alike. Many parents regaled me with fond memories of their own son's baby curls, telling me at what age they finally gave in to the first cut, and warning me that they would never come back. Some (mainly seriously unhip old guys) urged a cut from the time Oscar was one year old, when it began to press beyond military length. Some (mainly the aforementioned nostalgic parents) encouraged us to enjoy it for a while. Eventually, when it got really long, people stopped talking about it. Except for the few admirers who clearly came of age during the fabled Grunge era. That was around the time the public started calling Oscar a girl.
It all started with my desire to fund Oscar's university career on someone else's dime. Every year---I thought---Regis and Kelly run this beautiful baby contest, with first prize being a sizeable college fund. I entered Oscar the first year he was eligible and he was not selected. WHAT?! I made a careful study of the semifinalists, past and present. I discovered that, in addition to the attributes one would expect, the semifinalists, without exception, had all their teeth and full heads of hair. In fact, every last one of them was magnificently coiffed. No wonder my wispy headed gopher was rejected. Well, that was that. No hair cut for Oscar. Next year would be our year.
Oscar seemed to enjoy his growing hair, and he attended to it with great care. When he learned to drink from a sippy cup, he would often shake a few drops of the contents into his palm and "style" his hair. I found this tremendously comical...when it was a cup of water. When it got to that awkward stage where the bangs were poking his eyes, I tried getting him to wear a clip (shhh, G didn't like that). Oscar kept pulling it out. Then I tried to slick it back with various hair products, none of which were powerful enough to hold his increasingly magnificent coif. However, he really loved using "product" and insisted that we apply some every day. I secretly worried that I was making him blind, as the product-tainted hair would fall into his eyes constantly. Finally came the model-esque (or perhaps horse-esque) tossing and shaking of the mane. At last we had achieved rock star hair.
January, when the contest is usually announced, came and went. No word of it. Later this year, I guessed. I hoped his hair wasn't getting too long now. February...nothing. March...nope. I resigned myself to the fact that they were skipping this year, OUR year. Just my luck.
Now, what to do with the hair? Frankly, I didn't really think about it, except when my mother-in-law would say he needed a cut, then I would feel a determination to leave it long. Another month for every mention. To be honest, I was avoiding thinking about it. What hair cut to choose? Would he freak out (or rather, how intensely would he freak out) and would the stylist only be able to get half-way through? I envisioned him sporting that hairdo so popular among young boys, the "attacked-by-a-lawn-mower" cut. Most importantly, without that hair, would he STILL LOOK LIKE OSCAR??
A woman from church asked me who was so adamant about not cutting Oscar's hair---me, G, or both of us. I didn't know what to say to that. Perhaps it was getting a little ridiculous. But mainly we were beginning to have serious concerns that he would have some gender identity confusion: at home we teach him he is a boy, but everywhere else he goes he is told he is a girl. He could even say "androgynous." I booked an appointment.
In the days leading up to C-Day we practiced the hair cut. Oscar would sit in a chair, I'd wrap a big plastic sheet around him, then I'd stick scissors close to his head and make snipping noises. He originally said he didn't want a hair cut, but later he said he did, and seemed excited. He laughed while we practiced, anyway. And I had this fool proof plan to put him in a trance with an episode of Curious George while the stylist was doing the dirty work.
The morning of the appointment he slept in (of course) so we were late and stressed. G forgot the laptop, and I still didn't know what kind of cut to ask for, though I had a picture of a longish one I've seen all the cool boys wearing lately (just kidding, I don't know if they're cool). Once in the shearing pen, my worst case scenario began to be realized. Oscar screamed, fought, and generally acted in a very uncooperative manner. Reminding him of the practice sessions seemed ineffective. As was the stash of chocolate in my bag. I suggested we try another day (still thinking about that lawn mower attack) but the stylist was determined. Happily, he submitted after a while.
She did the longish one. It didn't look like the picture. We left and went to Target. I couldn't stop staring. In horror. Nor could I stop complaining. He looked more like a girl than ever! A girl with a frumpy hair cut. I called the stylist to let her know Oscar was ready for his second cut. She let us come back over right away.
The same exact scenario played out the second time, only this time he looked like a boy when she was finished. She gave us a baggie full of clippings that were neither long nor curly. I was gutted that we didn't snip one or two of the beautiful ringlets before we left home. I thought she would. Yep, I'm still gutted.
At church the next day, the husband of the woman who wondered which of us would never agree to a cut swore to me that his oldest son's personality changed after his curls were shorn. Huh?? He wondered if I noticed any difference in Oscar. Um, no. Same Oscar. However, I have noticed that I have changed. I used to smile and nod understandingly when my tiny temperamental rock star would rant, flail about, and pitch his toys in a fit of temper. I scold and punish my petulant little boy for the same. Just kidding. I've never smiled or nodded understandingly in my life. But I do miss those curls (sniff sniff). Oh well. Hair today, gone tomorrow.
No one tell me if Regis and Kelly announce a beautiful baby contest.
 |
| Why do people keep calling me a girl? Duh. Blue bib. |
It all started with my desire to fund Oscar's university career on someone else's dime. Every year---I thought---Regis and Kelly run this beautiful baby contest, with first prize being a sizeable college fund. I entered Oscar the first year he was eligible and he was not selected. WHAT?! I made a careful study of the semifinalists, past and present. I discovered that, in addition to the attributes one would expect, the semifinalists, without exception, had all their teeth and full heads of hair. In fact, every last one of them was magnificently coiffed. No wonder my wispy headed gopher was rejected. Well, that was that. No hair cut for Oscar. Next year would be our year.
Oscar seemed to enjoy his growing hair, and he attended to it with great care. When he learned to drink from a sippy cup, he would often shake a few drops of the contents into his palm and "style" his hair. I found this tremendously comical...when it was a cup of water. When it got to that awkward stage where the bangs were poking his eyes, I tried getting him to wear a clip (shhh, G didn't like that). Oscar kept pulling it out. Then I tried to slick it back with various hair products, none of which were powerful enough to hold his increasingly magnificent coif. However, he really loved using "product" and insisted that we apply some every day. I secretly worried that I was making him blind, as the product-tainted hair would fall into his eyes constantly. Finally came the model-esque (or perhaps horse-esque) tossing and shaking of the mane. At last we had achieved rock star hair.
 |
| The hair at the time of the contest. A magnificent coif! |
 |
| I'm ready for my close up, Regis. |
January, when the contest is usually announced, came and went. No word of it. Later this year, I guessed. I hoped his hair wasn't getting too long now. February...nothing. March...nope. I resigned myself to the fact that they were skipping this year, OUR year. Just my luck.
 |
| Still waiting for that close up, Regis! |
Now, what to do with the hair? Frankly, I didn't really think about it, except when my mother-in-law would say he needed a cut, then I would feel a determination to leave it long. Another month for every mention. To be honest, I was avoiding thinking about it. What hair cut to choose? Would he freak out (or rather, how intensely would he freak out) and would the stylist only be able to get half-way through? I envisioned him sporting that hairdo so popular among young boys, the "attacked-by-a-lawn-mower" cut. Most importantly, without that hair, would he STILL LOOK LIKE OSCAR??
A woman from church asked me who was so adamant about not cutting Oscar's hair---me, G, or both of us. I didn't know what to say to that. Perhaps it was getting a little ridiculous. But mainly we were beginning to have serious concerns that he would have some gender identity confusion: at home we teach him he is a boy, but everywhere else he goes he is told he is a girl. He could even say "androgynous." I booked an appointment.
In the days leading up to C-Day we practiced the hair cut. Oscar would sit in a chair, I'd wrap a big plastic sheet around him, then I'd stick scissors close to his head and make snipping noises. He originally said he didn't want a hair cut, but later he said he did, and seemed excited. He laughed while we practiced, anyway. And I had this fool proof plan to put him in a trance with an episode of Curious George while the stylist was doing the dirty work.
 |
| Last bath before the cut. |
 |
| Why do they make that pretty little girl wear boy clothes and a hard hat? |
The morning of the appointment he slept in (of course) so we were late and stressed. G forgot the laptop, and I still didn't know what kind of cut to ask for, though I had a picture of a longish one I've seen all the cool boys wearing lately (just kidding, I don't know if they're cool). Once in the shearing pen, my worst case scenario began to be realized. Oscar screamed, fought, and generally acted in a very uncooperative manner. Reminding him of the practice sessions seemed ineffective. As was the stash of chocolate in my bag. I suggested we try another day (still thinking about that lawn mower attack) but the stylist was determined. Happily, he submitted after a while.
She did the longish one. It didn't look like the picture. We left and went to Target. I couldn't stop staring. In horror. Nor could I stop complaining. He looked more like a girl than ever! A girl with a frumpy hair cut. I called the stylist to let her know Oscar was ready for his second cut. She let us come back over right away.
The same exact scenario played out the second time, only this time he looked like a boy when she was finished. She gave us a baggie full of clippings that were neither long nor curly. I was gutted that we didn't snip one or two of the beautiful ringlets before we left home. I thought she would. Yep, I'm still gutted.
 |
| Who are you and what have you done with Oscar? |
At church the next day, the husband of the woman who wondered which of us would never agree to a cut swore to me that his oldest son's personality changed after his curls were shorn. Huh?? He wondered if I noticed any difference in Oscar. Um, no. Same Oscar. However, I have noticed that I have changed. I used to smile and nod understandingly when my tiny temperamental rock star would rant, flail about, and pitch his toys in a fit of temper. I scold and punish my petulant little boy for the same. Just kidding. I've never smiled or nodded understandingly in my life. But I do miss those curls (sniff sniff). Oh well. Hair today, gone tomorrow.
No one tell me if Regis and Kelly announce a beautiful baby contest.
 |
| Oh look! My rock star's back. |
 |
| And don't you forget it. |
Monday, May 16, 2011
Saturday, April 30, 2011
Independence Day
Last Sunday was a red letter day for our household. Oscar went to nursery by himself for the first time. He was 24 months and 11 days old.
In fairness to Oscar, he didn't start going to nursery until he was 21 months old. I kept him out for his sake--I read that 18 months is the peak time for separation anxiety, and he had that in spades; and for mine--I didn't want him bringing home germs during the holidays, a time when we were doing quite a bit of traveling (which turned out to be rather insightful, seeing as he has been sick five times in the last three months).
After the first class, where he hung back a bit, checking it out, Oscar loved nursery. Absolutely LOVED it. As long as his valet was in attendance. For the whole class. I was urged by the leaders and other parents to sneak out while he wasn't looking. I could see how well that was working out for the other parents. They were being retrieved every twenty minutes (if they were lucky) when their kid figured out they had disappeared. Besides, Oscar is hyper aware. He would know if I left in sixty seconds. I did try it once. When they came and got me in three minutes (the leaders give it a couple of minutes to see if the kid will stop crying) I had to follow Oscar around while he clutched my finger for the rest of that class. He considered it a breach of trust and later punished me.
After that, I followed my original instinct--to kowtow to his every need and whim. I asked him a few times if I could go to my class. He gave me an unequivocal "no." We discussed that when he was two, he would be old enough to go by himself. He nodded solemnly in agreement, but I had my doubts. I was imagining myself attending high school with him, perhaps carrying his books, or suggesting a prom date. But sure enough, the first Sunday after he was two (that he was well enough to go) I told him that he needed to go by himself today, that I would pick him up afterward, and that he could choose a special chocolate from the special chocolate box after church if he went by himself (good tip, Grandma H!). He said in his panicky voice "Noo, noo!!" Then immediately "Bye," and turned to the toys. I walked away in disbelief, then realized, to my chagrin, that I had forgotten to leave his sippy cup. I went back in, and gave it to him, feigning cheerfulness and confidence. He didn't bat an eye. He returned to the toys. When I came to pick him up after relief society, he didn't even notice me standing there for three minutes, he was so engrossed with a puzzle (so much for being hyper aware). I called his name, two or three times! When he finally saw me, he jumped up and ran to me, joyfully calling out, "Mommy's back!" Very gratifying.
I hope I haven't jinxed myself by writing this.
In fairness to Oscar, he didn't start going to nursery until he was 21 months old. I kept him out for his sake--I read that 18 months is the peak time for separation anxiety, and he had that in spades; and for mine--I didn't want him bringing home germs during the holidays, a time when we were doing quite a bit of traveling (which turned out to be rather insightful, seeing as he has been sick five times in the last three months).
After the first class, where he hung back a bit, checking it out, Oscar loved nursery. Absolutely LOVED it. As long as his valet was in attendance. For the whole class. I was urged by the leaders and other parents to sneak out while he wasn't looking. I could see how well that was working out for the other parents. They were being retrieved every twenty minutes (if they were lucky) when their kid figured out they had disappeared. Besides, Oscar is hyper aware. He would know if I left in sixty seconds. I did try it once. When they came and got me in three minutes (the leaders give it a couple of minutes to see if the kid will stop crying) I had to follow Oscar around while he clutched my finger for the rest of that class. He considered it a breach of trust and later punished me.
After that, I followed my original instinct--to kowtow to his every need and whim. I asked him a few times if I could go to my class. He gave me an unequivocal "no." We discussed that when he was two, he would be old enough to go by himself. He nodded solemnly in agreement, but I had my doubts. I was imagining myself attending high school with him, perhaps carrying his books, or suggesting a prom date. But sure enough, the first Sunday after he was two (that he was well enough to go) I told him that he needed to go by himself today, that I would pick him up afterward, and that he could choose a special chocolate from the special chocolate box after church if he went by himself (good tip, Grandma H!). He said in his panicky voice "Noo, noo!!" Then immediately "Bye," and turned to the toys. I walked away in disbelief, then realized, to my chagrin, that I had forgotten to leave his sippy cup. I went back in, and gave it to him, feigning cheerfulness and confidence. He didn't bat an eye. He returned to the toys. When I came to pick him up after relief society, he didn't even notice me standing there for three minutes, he was so engrossed with a puzzle (so much for being hyper aware). I called his name, two or three times! When he finally saw me, he jumped up and ran to me, joyfully calling out, "Mommy's back!" Very gratifying.
I hope I haven't jinxed myself by writing this.
Thursday, April 28, 2011
It's a Frog Eat Frog World
At the beginning of last summer Oscar made a delightful discovery in our backyard, a couple of frogs living in the crawl space access pit. Every day he ran straight out to their hovel, gleefully shouting something that meant "frogs." He was fascinated.
Unfortunately, last summer we also had some other, less pleasing backyard inhabitants--who were daily making themselves at home inside, as well. Ants. Since we were having trouble keeping them out of the house, we, meaning G, decided to attack the nest. Hey, what goes around comes around, right? He read up on several methods for their, erm, permanent removal, and decided to go with...boiling them to death. Too barbaric? It gets worse.
That night we filled all our largest pots with water and fired up the stove. I had some misgivings when we hauled the cauldrons out to take care of business. The ant hole was very near--you might even say, on top of--the frog cave. You can see where this is going.
The next day, Oscar ran straight out to the hovel, gleefully shouting, as usual. No frogs. "Frogs allgone." I played dumb and pretended they must be over in the woods looking for food. Each day when he ran over to the frog hovel, I hoped against hope that the frogs would reappear. Or that some new frogs had taken up residence there. But all other would be residents were probably steered away from that real estate by the boiled carcasses of their kin. G and I were pretty sick about it, actually.
Some time after that, I spotted a frog hopping around out back when I took the dog out at night. I called G with the kind of urgency that can only come from a guilt-racked conscience. G got some Gladware, poked holes in the lid, and made a small frog habitat, complete with chunk of turf, water, and a moth who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. We were NOT going to have another frogicide due to reckless endangerment on our hands. We left the hapless amphibian on our porch to surprise Oscar in the morning.
The next day, after attempting to excite his anticipation a bit, we presented the frog. Oscar liked it, but he wasn't as ecstatic as I had envisioned he would be. We let that frog go before he croaked (ah ha ha!) but caught a couple of others before the summer was over. Here's hoping this summer brings lots of frogs and no ants.
Unfortunately, last summer we also had some other, less pleasing backyard inhabitants--who were daily making themselves at home inside, as well. Ants. Since we were having trouble keeping them out of the house, we, meaning G, decided to attack the nest. Hey, what goes around comes around, right? He read up on several methods for their, erm, permanent removal, and decided to go with...boiling them to death. Too barbaric? It gets worse.
That night we filled all our largest pots with water and fired up the stove. I had some misgivings when we hauled the cauldrons out to take care of business. The ant hole was very near--you might even say, on top of--the frog cave. You can see where this is going.
The next day, Oscar ran straight out to the hovel, gleefully shouting, as usual. No frogs. "Frogs allgone." I played dumb and pretended they must be over in the woods looking for food. Each day when he ran over to the frog hovel, I hoped against hope that the frogs would reappear. Or that some new frogs had taken up residence there. But all other would be residents were probably steered away from that real estate by the boiled carcasses of their kin. G and I were pretty sick about it, actually.
Some time after that, I spotted a frog hopping around out back when I took the dog out at night. I called G with the kind of urgency that can only come from a guilt-racked conscience. G got some Gladware, poked holes in the lid, and made a small frog habitat, complete with chunk of turf, water, and a moth who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. We were NOT going to have another frogicide due to reckless endangerment on our hands. We left the hapless amphibian on our porch to surprise Oscar in the morning.
The next day, after attempting to excite his anticipation a bit, we presented the frog. Oscar liked it, but he wasn't as ecstatic as I had envisioned he would be. We let that frog go before he croaked (ah ha ha!) but caught a couple of others before the summer was over. Here's hoping this summer brings lots of frogs and no ants.
Friday, March 4, 2011
Have you ever heard the one about...
Oscar recently told his first sophisticated joke. Well, more sophisticated than just blurting out "toots" anyway.
G's parents sent a small set of books to Oscar for Christmas about a dog named Hairy Maclarey and his friends. There are four books and each one is about things the character likes to do, one phrase per page. For instance, "Hairy Maclarey can scamper away..." (next page) "hide in the shed..." (next page) "skitter through legs..." (next page) "scoop up his skimmer..." (next page) "and play with this friends." Oscar learned the books by heart quickly, and when we read them to him he fills in the last word of each page, as in: Daddy, "Hairy Maclarey can scamper..." Oscar, "awaaay."
So the other night we were reading Hairy Maclarey.
Mom: "Hairy Maclarey can scamper..."
Oscar: "awaaay."
Mom: "hide in the..."
Oscar, after a pregnant pause: "office!"
Oscar and I laughed uproariously. I told him I would call in Daddy and he should tell the joke again. We did, and all three of us chortled. You don't get it? Hector's crate and dog bed reside in the office, the place to which our poor chihuahua skulks whenever he's feeling overwhelmed by his thug of a toddler brother.
Oscar has told that joke a few more times...a few hundred more times! You can tell he is kin to his Uncle Jake. He has also come up with variations on that joke. Very subtle variations. Make 'em laugh, Oscar.
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